


Reparations

by kajukai (iruhe)



Series: Happily Ever Afterlife [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16137872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iruhe/pseuds/kajukai
Summary: Hashirama and Madara meet again in the afterlife and make good on their promise to have a drink together. Things aren't perfect yet, but Hashirama is trying.





	1. Chapter 1

The last thing Madara saw as his life bled away for the final time was Hashirama's miserable face. The world had lost its definition, blurring into blobs of colour and indistinct background noise. Darkness seeped in from around the edges, spreading like ink until it dyed his entire vision black. Empty and infinite.

From somewhere far away, like a distant echo, he heard Hashirama speak of friendship, and the promise of a drink.

Fire and fury dimmed down to dying embers. His limbs grew cold.

The curtain fell.

Uchiha Madara was no more.

The world celebrated.

  


* * *

  


When his consciousness refocused, Madara found himself once again hovering above a precipice. Below, stretching as far as the eye could see, was a forest of cherry blossom trees in full bloom, transient beauty immortalised. A subtle fragrance perfumed the air, sweet and mellow, wafting through the wind and dancing flower petals.

Numerous expansive ancestral shrines with wide, sweeping tiled roofs, black lacquered pillars and ornate gold inlays stood proudly amongst a sea of delicate pink as gently arching red wooden bridges spanned streams that snaked across the landscape, glittering like liquid silver. Lesser, more homely buildings clustered in small neighbourhoods, and when dusk fell, paper lanterns lit up the area like fireflies. It was reminiscent of Konoha, and yet it was not. Even this cliff reminded him of the one he and Hashirama used to daydream on -- a brief period in his life where he thought he'd found a kindred spirit and had dared to hope.

At the far right corner of the settlement stood the forbidding Uchiha ancestral shrine, where the spirits of his forefathers, family and clansmen dwelled. His dear Izuna was there, and the urge to see his brother again had almost been enough to spur him onward despite his misgivings about the type of reception he'd undoubtedly receive.

Almost.

But he hadn't. Because Izuna was safe now, surrounded by loved ones, a world away from war, and no longer in need of protection. Not that he'd done a good job of it in the first place. He'd utterly failed his brother, like he'd failed his clan. The Ghost of Uchiha. His name a curse whispered in fear and spat on in hate, cast out and rejected by all.

All but one.

Madara thought back to his final moments. Hashirama had been the only one who had come to him, the only one who had ... cared, and even gone so far as to extend an olive branch yet again to someone who had tried repeatedly to destroy him and what had been their dream. At the end of the line, Madara had accepted that peace offering, and it was like the righting of something that had been out of alignment within him for the longest time.

Hashirama.

Madara's chest constricted with conflicting, _confusing_ emotions at the thought of his childhood friend. The man was kind to a fault, quick to forgive, foolishly optimistic, and yet, his particular brand of stupid had proven contagious. It wore you down with its tenaciousness and then infected you when you least expected it. He had been such a victim ...

But enough about Hashirama. Madara shook himself mentally and reined in his wandering mind back to his current situation. Everything he'd done in the last great war had been steeped in blood, broken souls and shattered bones. It was enough to send him straight into the foulest depths of hell, so why had he been let off the hook this easily? Perhaps his punishment was yet to come, or perhaps the powers that be thought his reputation as the unstable, power-hungry warmonger and his alienation from clan and community to be comeuppance enough. Madara could live with that. Die with that. Semantics. Who cared.

The last time he'd been here, he hadn't bothered with a resting place, confident he'd be reborn back into the world of the living soon enough, but this time, he supposed things were different. Madara's gaze swept across the barren rock plateau around him and decided this site was as good as any. He'd spent so many decades in that dark, dank underground as a wretched being that was neither dead nor alive that solitude had become his most steadfast companion. He no longer knew how to be around others in a context removed from war, just like he no longer knew what comradeship and camaraderie was. This plot suited him just fine.

A small, barebones house comprising a single tatami room would do for one spirit, but it needed a cliffside veranda. Why let that bird's-eye view go to waste? Madara glided over to the top of the cliff, mentally registering how the solid earth beneath his feet was not unlike how it felt in the physical world. He interlaced his fingers in the Seal of the Snake.

"Mokuton: Shichūka no Jutsu."

Wood twisted through cracks in the dry earth, merging and shaping itself into his new abode as though it had a life of its own. The great Uchiha Madara had been reduced to using his formidable ninjutsu capable of shaking the heavens and crumbling the earth for cheap parlour tricks. He looked down at his gloved hands and curled them into fists. There was a pang in his chest. He felt obsolete.

  


* * *

  


One advantage of being spirit meant you were free to manifest yourself however you pleased. Madara dangled his bare feet over the veranda one evening, lounging in a navy blue yukata he willed into existence. He'd lost track of how much time he'd been here, but with nothing to do and no sense of purpose, the boredom was excruciating.

There was no need for armour or weapons here, although ... Madara stole a look at his gunbai and kama -- the only items in an otherwise empty space -- and wondered if it was a good idea for them to be laying about in a realm full of spiritual energy. They ran the risk of morphing into Tsukumogami, and he had a nagging suspicion they were going to turn out ... just like their owner. That would be ... better company than the nattering Zetsu in any case.

The air was tinged with the frost of the stars, but Madara's fiery nature meant he was insulated from the cold. He took a deep breath, more out of habit than necessity, and absently surveyed the scene below. There was something cozy and inviting about warm yellow lights casting their glow when it was dark all around. They warded off the advancing night and invoked the feeling of homecoming. It was the knowledge that someone had left a light on for you. That they were waiting for you to come home. He used to know that feeling, a long time ago.

His gaze fell on one shrine right in the heart of the settlement. Senju. Hashirama was there. He could feel his chakra. Overwhelming in its sheer immensity but steady, warm and protective. It was the complete opposite of his tumultuous hellfire and brimstone. Vile, some had described it.

Hashirama had been welcomed back with open arms by his clan and myriad admirers alike, fawned over like a celebrity, worshipped like a deity, and who wouldn't want a glimpse of the legendary God of Shinobi? Madara had felt the buzzing excitement even from this distance. He couldn't help a snort imagining how the idiot would've ruined his own image the minute he opened his stupid mouth, guffawing like a fool or sinking into one of his ridiculously juvenile depressive episodes.

And then there was his family. Mito, his children, grandchildren, brothers ... Hashirama would be kept busy, too distracted to think of anything else. Like drinks with war buddies. Although at this point, Madara wasn't sure the term 'buddies' applied to them anymore. An old friend turned enemy briefly reconciled wouldn't rank very high on anyone's list of priorities. Maybe Hashirama had only meant it as "we don't have to be enemies anymore", rather than "let's have a drink soon".

Sentimental fool.

He scowled.

A burst of laughter travelled upwards and into his ears. Madara stiffened in recognition. Dark irises swirled away to reveal red and black Mangekyo Sharingan and he zeroed in on the source of the noise.

Through gaps in the pink tree crowns, he caught a flash of long, straight hair flying in the wind like wisps of a black silk curtain, and a face he knew better than his own.

Hashirama.

Radiant like the sun.

The man wore a bright, relaxed smile on his face, looking content with his lot. He had a child of about ten in his arms and Mito by his side, beautiful and regal as ever. Tobirama was there too, naturally, sticking out like a sore thumb that nevertheless belonged. Madara had to admit they looked happy together, the perfect picture of the royal family of Konoha.

He was ...

He decided he'd seen enough. Cherry blossoms and shrines got old fast, no matter how beautiful they were. Madara retreated, a glowing ball of red spirit chakra. Tomorrow, he would go exploring. There had to be more to the realm than this, and there was something he'd been wanting to test with the Rinnegan too.

The shoji screens slid shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Hashirama's words dissolved into gibberish when his mind came screeching to a halt. There was no mistaking that flare of chakra he'd been searching for ever since they'd been brought here. It had been expertly masked and would've escaped even his detection but for the fact that he'd felt _those_ eyes on him. Those eyes he'd never stopped dreaming of, both in pleasure and in pain. Hashirama set a disgruntled Nawaki down and fixed his brother with an urgent look.

"Tobirama!"

"Aah, I know," Tobirama grumped, nodding in the direction of the steep rock cliff. "Up there."

Nawaki watched the enigmatic exchange between the two men. "What's up there?"

"A red-eyed monster that eats children," Tobirama deadpanned.

"Tobirama!"

Nawaki shot his granduncle an unimpressed look. It was a look that transcended height disadvantages. "Not funny. Also, I'm not a child anymore, I've been dead for almost as long as you and grandfather have been alive, how many times do I have to say this?"

"That's not something you should be bragging about, kid."

And then there was a staring contest, to Mito's amusement. "He's an old friend of your grandfather's," she said amicably, brushing a cherry blossom petal from his hair.

Tobirama snorted, earning a sharp elbow to his side.

Nawaki's eyes shone with excitement. "Then he must've been a powerful shinobi! Do I know him? Is he in the history books?"

"You might have heard of him, yes," Mito smiled.

"Madara," Hashirama whispered to himself, clearly distracted and no longer paying much attention to the conversation. His gaze was glued to the top of the cliff despite it being too dark to see anything without the aid of dojutsu, but _he_ was there, like gravity, irresistible, pulling him forth.

"Wait, which ... Madara?"

"How many Madaras does the world know?" Tobirama supplied helpfully.

"Eh? So ... wouldn't that make him the one grandfather defeated at the Valley of the End?" Nawaki frowned. "He's an old friend? Wasn't he a Konoha deserter?"

Dark clouds rolled overhead in ominous waves, oppressive and suffocating as they hung miserably over a Hashirama shrouded in gloom. Nawaki floundered like a fish out of water and looked around for help.

"It's complicated," Tobirama sighed. Understatement of the century.

"Oh. Uh. Well, it sounds like an interesting story. Will I get to meet him too?"

"That will depend on how persuasive your grandfather is," Mito said with a twinkle in her eye, which Hashirama suspected was more out of anticipation at the prospect of seeing him make a fool of himself than benevolent happiness at his long-awaited reunion with his best friend.

He sputtered.

"Persuasive?"

Hashirama sputtered some more.

"Go," Mito gave him a shove and a little laugh, clear as crystal.

"Thank you." Hashirama collected himself and flashed her a grateful smile. He'd had to make painful personal sacrifices for the sake of peace and the village, but he'd also been blessed. Hashirama couldn't have taken a better, more understanding wife for a political marriage. They had respected each other and raised a good family together. He loved her in his own way, she was family, but he considered his duty by her fulfilled, and now, a lifetime later, without the burden of war, clan and politics, they were free. He was free.

Hashirama ruffled Nawaki's hair because it was hilarious to see him squawk at being treated like a child, and turned another glance at the top of the cliff. "I'll see you all ... later."

"... Wait, brother."

Hashirama shot Tobirama a cool, warning glance over his shoulder. "I suggest saving your breath if you're going to try and stop me."

"If I'd wanted to I wouldn't have told you where he was."

Touché.

"You forgot these," Tobirama said, holding out two bottles of sake.

"Oh. Yes, of course. I'm going to need them." Hashirama took over the bottles -- top grade sake from the private stash of cousin Chiyome, his prize for winning a round of cards. It wasn't even his fault this time. Not really. Chiyome had been the one to challenge him, but he's had his eye on that sake for a while now and may or may not have goaded her into doing so. Hashirama clapped his brother on the shoulder in apology and gratitude, knowing this was as much of a concession as he was going to get when it came to him and Madara. "Thank you, Tobirama."

"Go."

Tobirama folded his arms, most definitely washing his hands off the sticky affair that was Hashirama and Madara's mess of a relationship. Whatever that relationship was. He watched his elder brother scale the cliff in a burst of exuberance, alive in a way he hadn't been since the night he thought he'd taken Madara's life, and an emotion that felt suspiciously like guilt squirmed uncomfortably in his chest.

Everything he'd done to in an attempt to keep them apart, to keep Madara from power, had been for the security and prosperity of Konoha. And for his brother. Madara was like a wild beast, unpredictable, dangerous in every way possible; he'd merely acted to protect his overly trusting brother and that dream of his, but at that moment, watching Hashirama, he couldn't help but feel like he'd made some errors in judgement after all. He still didn't like Madara, and he knew the other man had never forgiven him for Izuna, but he couldn't deny the threads of fate that bound him and Hashirama together now. The Uchiha made his brother happy for reasons he would never fathom, and that would have to be enough.

  


* * *

  


Madara lay on the tatami with his hands propped behind his head, blinking up at the beams on his ceiling. Someone was approaching. That someone was not subtle. It felt like a massive, moving forest was out there, which could only mean it was the one and only Senju Hashirama he wasn't keen on dealing with at the moment. How had the man tracked him down anyway? Shit. His Sharingan. But he'd been discreet. Not even Tobirama should have been able to sense him ... casually, and he was certain he hadn't been harbouring any malicious thoughts for Mito to have picked up on either.

"Hello?" a muffed voice called from outside.

"Madara? It's me."

Madara sat up and frowned into the darkness, unsure of what to do. He would be lying if he said he didn't want to see Hashirama again, but having caught sight of that happy scene of domestic bliss earlier, what was the man's sudden appearance supposed to mean? Madara knew he was being unreasonable, but it rankled, to be treated like an afterthought, only remembered when reminded, and then offered some sort of half-hearted consolation-apology for 'whoops I'm sorry for forgetting all about you'.

"I know you're in there."

"... This wasn't how I envisioned our reunion."

A hot flash of anger burned within him and Madara contemplated telling the idiot to fuck off.

"We were supposed to fall into each other's arms and weep, Madara."

He twitched.

"It's really windy out here."

"Madaraaa."

"It's cold."

"I'll get sick and you'd be responsible."

Madara snapped. Trust the idiot to always, _always_ find some way to get under his skin and his legendary composure. He stuck his head out from between shoji screens and scowled in the direction of the voice, hurling a fireball at his kind-of-but-not-really unwelcome guest. His house would probably singe but it would be worth it.

There was a dismayed cry of his name as the night lit up in a brief burst of orange flame which was quickly snuffed out by a giant wooden hand.

"Shut the hell up! Some of us are trying to sleep! And dead fools like you don't catch colds!"

He heard Hashirama laugh. The nerve.

"What? Were you asleep? The night is still young! When did you turn into an old geezer?"

The shoji screens flew open with a loud bang and Madara stormed out on the veranda, red eyes flashing, yukata dishevelled, a vision of wrath and vengeance. What wind? What cold? Liar!

And then there was a long stretch of silence. Hashirama's wide smile had softened into one that was unbearably tender, heartbreakingly genuine, no longer teasing. It was the kind of look you gave someone precious. That was unexpected. It should've been awkward, but nobody had looked at him like that in a very, very long time. He swallowed.

This ... this didn't feel like an afterthought, but then Hashirama had always been an affectionate sort of character so what would he know.

Something hard and jaded inside him cracked.

Then Hashirama beamed, warm as sunshine, carefree as the wind, and Madara thought he saw that boy with the awful bowl cut and tacky clothes from a lifetime ago all over again. It was ... a dear sight. Something he could not find in himself to yell at or send away. The life of a shinobi back in their day was neither happy, peaceful nor innocent, but his friendship with Hashirama had been a silver lining in an unforgiving world. It was one of the few things he treasured, not that he would ever admit it to the other man.

Hashirama leapt onto the veranda in one smooth movement, unrepentantly invading his personal space, and dangled the two bottles of sake in his face. They clinked merrily together, as though heralding the first of many toasts to come. "You owe me a drink," he said expectantly, eyes aglow with a quiet joy.

Stupid was contagious, Madara reaffirmed as he looked at his nemesis. Especially this up close. A small smile he couldn't quite suppress tugged at his lips.

"Hn, I guess I do."


	3. Chapter 3

"Cups?"

"None."

Hashirama peered into the dark, spartan interior of the tatami room and made polite humming noises. The kind you made when something was appalling and you wanted to make it known that you found it appalling but didn't want to appear rude.

Long, dark hair glided off a broad shoulder and Madara thought he caught a hint of the sandalwood that used to linger on his friend from the soaps, shampoos and incense he favoured; warm and masculine, like the man himself. The scent suited him.

"You don't have anything, it seems."

He didn't, in every sense of the word. The idiot probably hadn't intended for it to come across that way, but he had hit the nail on the head. "No," Madara replied as nonchalantly as the way he settled cross-legged on the veranda. He tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his loose yukata and glanced up at Hashirama, daring him to say another word on the matter, or worse, offer his sympathies.

Hashirama held up a placating hand. "I come in peace," he smiled, passing the round stoneware bottles to Madara as he took a seat opposite him in a rustle of heavy linen.

Madara admired the hefty vessels in his arms. They were glazed with a coat of something opalescent, rainbow colours shimmering and swirling as though they had a life of their own. He'd never seen anything like it.

"Beautiful," he murmured, lifting a bottle up against the moonlight.

"... Yes," Hashirama whispered.

"Where did you get it?"

"Hmm?"

"The sake?" Madara arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, that!" Hashirama laughed, a little too loudly, as he busied himself smoothing the non-existent creases in his hakama.

"I won it."

"Won it?"

"... In a round of cards."

Hashirama was definitely avoiding his eyes. "I see." He didn't. There was no reason for the man to be so reticent about a harmless game of cards; they all played from time to time, unless ...

An unwelcome idea wormed its way into his mind. It conjured images of unkempt men and possessed eyes, foul of temper and feverish in their vice. Men mired in debt, slaves to their poison, void of the strength or will to break free. It was not something Madara wanted to associate with a man of Hashirama's calibre. His brow furrowed at the uncomfortable profile of his companion.

"You ..." Madara started, then stopped. It wasn't his place to ask, but the look of chagrin on Hashirama's face was answer enough.

"... I never knew."

What else did he not know about this man?

Hashirama lifted his face, and Madara found himself staring into the deep, fathomless eyes of an old shinobi. One who had seen much. Suffered much. Endured much.

"I don't anymore," Hashirama said quietly. "It was just something I picked up after ... after you ... left." A brief, mirthless smile pulled at his lips. "A ... coping mechanism that got a little out of hand."

"..."

Madara hadn't been ignorant of the politics and current events in the shinobi world when he was king of his own grotesque kingdom, but for all he'd heard from White Zetsu, it had never included anything personal about the First Hokage, and he'd never asked. He'd gotten what he wanted from the man, and that had been enough. The rest of it, the messy aspects he could neither sever nor make head or tail of, he had been determined never to think about again.

Had Hashirama been miserable? Hadn't he achieved all he set out to do? Wasn't he the grand winner in all of this?

Madara watched in silence as Hashirama turned his palms skyward. Smooth skin toughened into snapping and crackling wood that extended from thick, sturdy fingers. He commanded it like second nature, bending the extensions into the shape of cubed masu cups, one of which he handed to Madara.

"I was lonely," Hashirama confessed.

How could he possibly be lonely. What would _he_ know about loneliness? "You had your village, your clan, your ... family," Madara said, hating himself for tripping over that last word, but it called to mind haunting images of red-stained bandages wrapped around a pale face, the stench of blood, his precious Izuna as he lay dying, blind, determined to protect his clan and his brother to the end.

"Yes, and I don't know what I would've done without them ..."

Madara's grip on his cup tightened, its sharp corners digging into his palm like the way Hashirama's words sunk their talons into his dead heart. It hurt still, whenever he thought of what his brother had to suffer while his killer got off scot free and went on to be celebrated like a hero.

"... But they were not you."

What?

Hashirama continued, oblivious to his inner maelstrom. "I know this is hypocritical. With what I've been espousing about peace. But ... I missed that adrenaline rush whenever we clashed, whether on the battlefield or even just a friendly spar. It was always electrifying to see what new tricks you had up your sleeve," he gave Madara a small smile. "You were ever the only one who could match me."

Of course. So that was what he meant.

"The thrill of gambling ... the element of risk ... brought back a ghost of that high. It was a poor substitute of course, but it was the only thing I had."

Hashirama leaned forward, as though desperate to convince Madara of the sincerity of his words.

"I know how it looked on the outside. I was living my dream, I had everything a man could want, but I'd always pictured our village with both of us in it. It was supposed to have been our home. After you left, it ... it wasn't the same anymore. I'd been looking forward growing old together, watching our kids grow up ..."

Idiot. Was he listening to himself? But a sense of deja vu washed over Madara. They'd talked about something like this before, a long time ago. Or rather, Hashirama had talked. Something stupid about betrothing their children so they could have grandchildren. He'd been half asleep, but that voice back then, and his warmth had been so soothing that his words must've slipped into his subconscious. It's funny though, how his memories with Hashirama now feel like they belong to a different person.

"You left a void nobody else could fill, and ... that black hole sucked me in," Hashirama said quietly.

How does one respond to that? How was the man able to throw around these embarrassing sentiments so casually? And was Hashirama indirectly blaming _him_ for _his_ bad life choices? The gall. Madara busied his hands, filling Hashirama's masu in lieu of a verbal answer. Clear, lambent liquid spilled out of the bottleneck like an elixir of life. It inhabited its new vessel, a miniature universe unto itself, rippling and catching the light of the moon and the stars. It momentarily distracted him, the sight of the infinite cosmos reflected in the sake cup easing the discordance within.

"Are you sure this is sake?"

And just like that, a simple non sequitur was all it took to break the spell Hashirama had woven around him.

The man seemed to understand. He let the topic slide, silently reciprocating Madara's gesture. "This is not the kind of sake we're used to, but you can certainly get quite drunk from it," he smiled.

"That's good enough for me," Madara said, lifting his wooden cup in a toast.

"Cheers."

"Cheers."

He brought the masu to his nose and immediately picked up on the unmistakable scent of orange blossoms, stirring up long-buried childhood memories. Pleasantly surprised, he took a deeper whiff of the liquor, which now painted a portrait of ripe orange orchards. Madara looked up at Hashirama's knowing smile and took an experimental sip. The liquid glided down his throat, cool like jade and sweet like honey, imbued with the piquant freshness of citrus that kept it from becoming cloying. It was heady, but without the characteristic bitterness of alcohol.

"How is it?"

"Actually ... very good. Almost as though it's tailored to my tastes ..." How was it possible? Madara most certainly hadn't told him about _this_ particular memory.

Hashirama beamed. "Sharp as ever! This is known as The Chameleon. It picks up on your likes and adjusts itself to cater to your preferences. Everybody tastes something different."

Madara hummed and examined the cup in his hands. "Fascinating. If we were still in the other world, I would've put it down to some type of hallucinogen or even genjutsu, but perhaps magic does exist here." He looked up and smirked. "I knew there was no way you could've known about the orange grove."

"What orange grove?"

Madara took another languid sip -- he could get addicted to this, and he could see how one could get drunk off this, if they didn’t know they were imbibing something intoxicating. "Just a childhood memory."

"I'd like to know. You rarely talk about yourself. Come to think of it, I don't know much about your childhood at all."

"You were part of my childhood. Unfortunately."

Hashirama hung his head, a curtain of hair obscuring his face. "Such a small part, and for such a brief period of time before you started trying to roast me alive ..." he muttered.

"Shame I failed."

Hashirama gave him his best kicked puppy impression, and that dragged a reluctant smile out of him. Apparently it didn't take a lot to defeat Uchiha Madara these days. He must be getting soft.

"Tell me about the grove."

Fine. One story wouldn't hurt. But only because he begged.

"When we were young, our house used to be near an orange grove owned by an elderly couple -- I think it was the Morinos. They were childless, so they treated Izuna (he couldn't help but flick a quick glance in the direction of the Uchiha Shrine) and I like their grandkids. We'd go and laze under the trees when we weren't training. I'd spend the afternoon reading jutsu scrolls and gorging on oranges when they were in season," he smiled to himself at the memories. "Izuna was mostly there for the gorging; the monkey was never one to stay still for long.

"In spring, the grove would be full of little white flowers that gave off the sweetest scent, and when the fruits were ripe Izuna and I would earn some extra money by helping the Morinos with the harvest. They'd let us bring home as much as we could carry too. Sometimes, when the yield was particularly abundant, the clan would mysteriously find baskets of oranges on our doorsteps," Madara grinned ... and what was the idiot doing?!

"Hashirama! You're spilling the sake!"

"What? Oh. Oh, shoot!"

The Chameleon slid off Hashirama's hakama like a string of pearls and fell onto the dusty ground. They watched as the little wet patch of earth wiggled, revealing a minor rock spirit that had clearly been disturbed by the unexpected offering. It shook itself free from its encasing dirt and tumbled off into the night.

Hashirama gazed wistfully at a still smiling Madara. "It sounds wonderful. I wish I could've seen it."

"It's just a regular orange grove."

"It's full of happy childhood memories. It's anything but ordinary."

Madara could still remember the weight and feel of the oranges in his hands -- the cool, coarse rind and the sweet tang of its pulp. He could still still feel the prickly grass beneath his bare feet and the warmth of the sunshine on his upturned face as he listened to the hypnotic sound of thousands upon thousands of whispering leaves that sometimes lulled him into a nap.

He could still remember the sweet floral fragrance of those white blossoms in spring, the feel of worn paper scrolls in his hands, and the smell of ink, like earth and ash. 

He wondered if the grove was still there, and in his mind's eye, he saw Hashirama ... no, _Izuna_ with him in his other little sanctuary, darting through the grove in an indigo blur, laughing, playing, without a care in the world.

Hashirama was still smiling at him in that soft, silly way of his. "I always wondered what your life was like, beyond our meetings by the river. I often wish we could've grown up together, had adventures together, gotten into trouble together ..."

"We did."

His companion laughed, warm and full-bodied. "That we did, at the very least."

Madara would sooner wage another war than admit to having had similar thoughts, but only on sticky summer nights, when the cicadas were loud and it was too hot and humid to sleep. That was when fanciful notions were free to run rampant without judgement, under the secrecy of darkness.

"You know how life was for us back then," Hashirama continued. "I was the eldest son and I had to play the part -- be the warrior my clan needed and a pillar of support for my brothers, but with you, there was no pressure. I could let all of that go and just be a boy."

That made the two of them.

"Did you know, when we were kids, I thought you were a gift from the divine?"

It was Madara's turn to spill some of that precious nectar. "What?!" he couldn't help a startled bark of laughter. How like the man, stupidly sentimental about someone he knew nothing about apart from a shared nebulous ideal.

Hashirama neither wilted nor grinned in that stupid way of his. He was looking at Madara in earnest, like he was serious. Like he still felt the same way. Idiot. That Madara died a long time ago.

"You don't know how unreal it was for me to have met another kid who shared my vision in a world where we've known nothing but war. I knew then, that even if my dream was foolish, that I was no longer alone. That was what gave me the strength to carry on, even when you called me enemy and told me you no longer believed in it." Hashirama slid closer. Close enough for him to pick up on that sandalwood and feel the heat of his gaze even as Madara stared wordlessly at the wooden cup he cradled in his hands. "Because I knew you wanted to believe ... and that you were waiting for me to convince you."

"... What's the point of saying all this now?"

"Because I'd told our story to Uchiha Sasuke and his companions ... and the other Hokage, and I realised ... I never told you." Hashirama reached up, and Madara's cheek tingled with the phantom touches of a large, warm hand. "I never told you many things."

That large hand clapped him amicably on the shoulder instead, and the sensation of it travelled down his shoulder to echo forlornly in his empty cavern of a chest with something that sounded like disappointment.

"You're going to think me juvenile--"

"--I already do," Madara shot back on reflex, stubbornly ignoring the unwelcome feelings that had wrapped their choking tendrils around him.

Hashirama huffed, though he couldn't quite hide his fond smile. "It was just more energising doing things together, you know?"

"You mean 'fun'."

"You thought so too?"

Madara rolled his eyes at the grinning block of wood. Fine. It had admittedly been ... entertaining for a while. A very brief while, before everything went downhill for him.

"Even the paper mountains and tedious daimyo monologues were enjoyable when we suffered through it together. After you left, things I had been able to tolerate before ... things I had come to enjoy before, became a chore." Hashirama's smile dimmed. "Mere duty."

Madara picked up one of the sake bottles, but Hashirama took it out of his hands.

"Why?" he asked, watching Hashirama refill his empty cup. "Why are you this ... fixated on someone you'd only known for a brief time in your childhood, and then not even for a full three years after that? Like you said, we've spent more time as enemies than as friends. There was nothing else I could've offered you after the founding of Konoha. You had your village, others who shared your dream, and ... even the Uchiha had been eager to expel me so you could lead."

Madara's obsession with Hashirama stemmed from his desire for power, but what could the other possibly want from him, apart from what he'd already given?

Hashirama stared at him for the longest time in quiet contemplation. "I think," he eventually ventured, "it's because there's something special about you being the first person who shared my dream. Firsts are always the most unforgettable, you know? Like first loves."

The idiot really needed to think about how his words sounded before unleashing them on the unsuspecting. And now a part of him (a very small part) couldn't help but wonder who Hashirama's unforgettable first love had been.

"And ... I've never viewed you as the enemy. In fact, you were the only one I thought of as a close friend. Yes, I was surrounded by comrades and family, people who supported me through trying times, but you've always been the one I wanted to share everything with first. Maybe this is one-sided on my part, but I've always felt this ... inexplicable kinship with you."

Kinship, huh.

"It was only later that I realised, we did indeed share an age-old connection."

"What?"

Hashirama perked up. "Oh, that's right! You hadn't met the Sage of Six Paths!"

"No, not really." He'd been distantly aware of the Sage as he lay dying, but that didn't count.

"Do you remember, you once said it was written on the Uchiha tablet that one god seeking stability split into light and shadow, and that true happiness can be found when the two contrary powers cooperate?"

"What about it?"

"As it turns out, we were the split halves!" Hashirama beamed. "Or rather, our chakra were. According to the Sage, I was the transmigration of the chakra of his younger son Ashura, and you were older brother Indra's!"

"... Is that so." Madara wondered why he wasn't as surprised as he should've been. Maybe he'd known, deep down. Or maybe he'd simply been through so much hardly anything shocked him anymore.

"Ashura believed love was the answer to peace. Indra believed in power."

Why did that sound familiar?

"The Sage picked Ashura to be his successor. That did not sit well with Indra."

Again, why did that sound so familiar?

"That led to the never-ending war between the brothers and their descendants, in the Uchiha and the Senju ... and in us, their transmigrants."

So he'd been fated to be a warmonger from the start. They'd been destined to be enemies. He'd been doomed to hatred. Nothing had been up to him. Madara swallowed thickly as a sudden feeling of world-weariness crashed over him.

"We were meant to work together to maintain balance in the world. Light and shadow. Two halves of a whole."

It's too late now. "If what you say is true, then that chakra must've moved on ..." And they weren't anything special anymore.

"Yes. Care to guess who?"

"Uchiha Sasuke and Uzumaki Naruto," Madara replied without hesitation. Sasuke's Sharingan was clue enough, and the only other idiot he'd seen had been none other than that Uzumaki kid.

"Exactly."

"... Do you think they will succeed?"

"I think they will. No, I know they will. You've seen the Fourth's son."

Madara snorted at that. "A bigger idiot than you are."

Hashirama chuckled. "Uzumaki Naruto surpasses me in every aspect. He will bring Sasuke home."

Home. Madara stared at the settlement down below, sprinkled with warmly beckoning lights. Every now and then, a burst of laughter and the inexperienced plucking of koto strings rose above the background murmurs and carried on the updraft to his ears. "Do you genuinely believe there will be lasting peace?"

"... I don't know," Hashirama replied honestly. "I can only trust and hope."

"I don't." Madara turned his dark eyes to his friend. Eyes that glimmered with the reflection of the world below. Eyes that had seen too much. As old as Hashirama's. No, older. They should both know better by now.

"You founded Konoha--"

" _We_ founded Konoha--"

Madara flashed him a fleeting smile, a mechanical pull of the lips that did not reach the eyes. Hashirama frowned but he held up a hand to silence him.

"It's always been your village. That's a fact."

"Madara--"

"Stop interrupting. What I wanted to say was, you founded Konoha to cease the skirmishes between rival shinobi clans, but what happened instead was a temporary ceasefire that ultimately led to full blown wars between larger and more powerful entities in the form of villages and countries. It became destruction on a much larger scale, more death and bloodshed."

Hashirama sighed deeply. "I ... admittedly had not foreseen the repercussions or the darker side to this. Perhaps, like you'd always said, I had been foolishly optimistic, and things turned out differently from what I'd hoped ..."

No, it wasn't that Hashirama had not foreseen; he'd simply chosen to believe in the goodness of the human heart, as usual. "... You also promised you wouldn't let the Uchiha become ostracised. My clan turned against their own head because they'd wanted to remain in the village in peace, but look what happened."

"I ..."

"'Leave Tobirama to me', you said. Hah! You let your brother get away with everything!" A flare of that familiar hatred kindled in his chest and bled into his eyes, glinting a dangerous red.

Hashirama, to his credit, met his gaze where most would've looked away. He always had. "I know I failed you ... there isn't one day where I didn't wish I'd done things differently. Been more firm. You have every right to hate me." They fell into a tense staring contest until Hashirama whispered, sounding just a little bit broken, "Losing you ... was something I had to endure every single day for the rest of my life."

The idiot looked so genuinely miserable that Madara could no longer find it in himself to be mad at him. What was the point anyway? It was all over. He sagged back against the pillar behind him and exhaled deeply. "As long as humans exist there will always be strife. We will never see eye to eye, because we all have different interests to protect. What benefits one will put another at a disadvantage and who would stand for that?"

"..."

"Our generation had an idiot like you, and this generation has an idiot like the Uzumaki kid, but that won't always be the case."

"..."

"That is why I do not believe any man has the ability to bring about a lasting peace. Only a god would have that power. Once, I believed myself to be that god," Madara's lips pulled self-mockingly.

Hashirama ran his thumbs along the edges of his masu in thoughtful silence. "... Perhaps you're right, but I do not regret the pursuit of peace. I regret my mistakes along the way, greatly, but I do not regret the village. The alternative would be shinobi clans fighting each other to the death to this day. What we have now, even if it is merely a tentative balance of power, a quieter form of conflict, is still an improvement from before. Besides, haven't you seen the Allied Shinobi Army in the last war? We are capable of coming together as one."

"Only when you're up against a common foe. Watch that alliance dissolve once the dust settles. The villages will be back to their old tricks, fighting amongst themselves for greater power so they can lord over the others."

"You forget they have Naruto."

"Heh." Madara took a sip of his drink. "Uzumaki Naruto is something special, I'll give you that, but there aren’t many like him."

"That's why we must educate our children and trust in them, like I told you before. There will be those that inherit the Will of Fire, and they will pass it on to their children."

"Ever the foolish optimist."

"But you know, I'm glad," Hashirama smiled.

"For what?"

"You'd always been after peace as well. Even if our methods differed, our dream was still the same at heart."

Madara shook his head at his hopeless friend, not about to deign the idiot with a response and they fell into another bout of silence. A comfortable one this time.

"... I missed this," Hashirama said. "Just spending time together, talking about everything and doing nothing. There was nobody I could talk to like this, and nobody I could talk to about ... you. They wouldn't understand."

Of course not. Tobirama was a given -- there was no love lost between them, and no wife would tolerate hearing her husband speak about missing another man in the terms Hashirama had been using. As for potential candidates Hashirama could've forged a close friendship with, Madara thumbed through the dusty pages of his memories of Konoha and realised he could not come up with a single name, but then again, he wasn't all that familiar with Hashirama's personal pool of friends to begin with ... and the man was staring at him again.

"I'd been looking for you."

"Have you," Madara said, carefully neutral.

"You were impossible to find! Not even Tobirama could sense you. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were hiding from me!" Hashirama paused, then leaned forward again into his personal space. "Wait. Were you?" he asked a little anxiously.

Madara pushed him away from his face with a finger to the forehead. "Don't flatter yourself. I've been here in this conspicuous place all along for the world to see." And he hadn't been hiding from _Hashirama_ specifically, he'd simply been keeping a low profile from everyone.

"But you'd been masking your chakra! And you ... haven't been back ..." Hashirama floundered. The unspoken 'home' hung heavily between them.

"No."

"Why?"

"You are aware of how my clan views me."

Hashirama's face took on a pained look. "That was in the past."

Madara flicked another surreptitious glance at the roof of the Uchiha shrine and hated himself for it. "It's fine," he said stubbornly. "I like it here."

"Do you really?"

"Yes."

"Izuna misses you."

... Izuna?! Madara lunged at his friend, grabbing the front of his kimono none too gently. Their cups toppled over in the flurry of movement, streaking glittering silver across the veranda. "You've seen him?!" He knew Hashirama wasn't going to push him away, but oh, he wasn't expecting the man to brush away the hair that had fallen across his eyes like that.

"Yes," Hashirama smiled softly. "The Uchiha shrine was the first place I thought to look for you and Izuna was at the torii to greet me. Well, 'greet' might be a little generous."

Madara was torn between amusement and being anxious for news of his brother. "What did he say?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"..."

"Madara, you can't genuinely like being isolated." Hashirama gave his shoulders a firm squeeze. "Your family misses you too, they would be over the moon to see you."

"..." Madara looked down at the twisted fabric in his hands. Maybe ... maybe his family would welcome him, but what about the rest of the clan? He recalled the betrayal and rejection when all he'd ever wanted to do was protect his people. He didn't hate them, but he was disillusioned, and in all honesty, it hurt. What idiot apart from Hashirama would thrust himself in the midst of a place where he knew they wouldn't be welcome?

Sandalwood. There was that scent of sandalwood again. Warm. Soothing. Madara calmed his spiralling thoughts and came back into himself, belatedly realising he was practically sprawled on Hashirama's lap. And that the man's chest was half exposed. He quickly let go. Idiot should've said something.

Thankfully, Hashirama knew when to let things slide. He righted their overturned cups and refilled them with the last of their drink. Madara silently mourned the spilled liquor, but then he remembered something he'd been curious about for a while now. He looked up at Hashirama (who still hadn't straightened his clothes and that smooth, exposed chest was getting a little distracting), staring until he caught the man's eyes. "I'd been meaning to ask, when did you kick the bucket?"

Hashirama evidently hadn't expected that. He paused, then gave Madara a wry smile. "First Shinobi World War -- don't."

Madara's lips twitched. Oh, the irony. "I was only going to ask, more importantly, who managed to off the God of Shinobi, where the great villain Uchiha Madara and demonic Nine Tails failed?"

Hashirama grimaced. "I was ... distracted. I thought I saw ... I was caught off guard in any case, and it gave the enemy an opening."

"That makes no sense," Madara frowned.

"... I thought I saw you."

Oh. Again, how does one respond to that? "... That still makes no sense. First, you are perfectly capable of taking on a small army with your eyes closed and second, you should've been charging at me. Or some manifestation of me. Not getting distracted."

Hashirama's lips pulled into a taut line. "If it makes you feel any better, they'd been using the Five Tails, and I told you, I've never thought of you as the enemy. I enjoyed fighting you but I never wanted to kill you!"

An aura of oppression circled dangerously around them. Pillars creaked, floorboards groaned, bottles trembled and Madara arched an eyebrow at his old friend. Who was he trying to intimidate?

"That had been one of my biggest regrets."

Right. "What about your regenerative powers?"

"Must've stopped working," Hashirama said, unconcerned. Madara's frown deepened. His friend clearly wasn't giving him the full story, but if the man didn't want to talk, he wouldn't pry.

"Hn. I guess that means I get to brag about killing the God of Shinobi," he said, a macabre attempt at lightening the mood, but at least it got a small chuckle out of Hashirama.

The conversation gradually ebbed away, leaving them to sip their drinks in a companionable silence, but without words, the liquor dwindled away twice as fast and soon, too soon for Madara's liking, they'd exhausted both word and drink.

An empty bottle rolled off the veranda and fell with a muted thud on the dry earth.

"When do you have to go?"

"Hmm?" Hashirama slowly pushed himself upright, his pleasantly relaxed expression sobering. "Ah, I suppose I've imposed for long enough."

Imposed.

"No, I ... enjoyed this."

"Me too," Hashirama smiled, and it looked just a little bit seductive on his sleepy visage with that damned chest still exposed. Madara's chakra fluttered at the sight before he could throttle it.

"... I've kept you long enough," he made himself say. "Your family must be missing you."

"They know I'm here."

"Ah." What did that mean? Did Hashirama want to stay?

"I hope you don't mind if I enjoy your veranda for a little longer. You have the best views up here."

Well. That wasn't what he expected to hear, but it wasn't ... unwelcome. "Be my guest." Should he camp out here with Hashirama then? Play the part of the gracious host?

"Good night, Madara," Hashirama said, solving his dilemma with a little smile and a nod.

"... Don't stay up too late" was the only thing Madara could think of saying at that moment, which in hindsight was ridiculous. He retreated into the darkness of his house and from under his futon, Madara stared at Hashirama's silhouette through the thin paper of the shoji screens until a light sleep claimed him.

  


* * *

  


He wasn't sure how long he had been out, but it was still dark when he resurfaced to consciousness and the silhouette of Hashirama was still there. He pulled his yukata around him and stepped back outside, a little at a loss to see his old friend asleep with his broad shoulder and head propped against the pillar at an awkward angle.

"Hashirama?" he called quietly. Madara crouched beside the man, knowing better than to lay hands on a seasoned shinobi while they were asleep. No response. "Hashirama!"

Madara had been prepared to dodge the sharp, defensive wooden spikes that would undoubtedly flare outwards when the man started awake, but nothing happened. Being a family man must have dulled his edge. How disappointing.

"M'dara?"

"Why are you sleeping out here?!"

"Mmm. Must've dozed off," Hashirama mumbled. "Your veranda was too comfortable."

Liar. The idiot would be suffering from a stiff neck right now if he still had the muscles for it, but Hashirama didn't seem to want to go home for some reason, and Madara could only guess at why. Trouble in paradise, probably. What kind of a war buddy would he be if he left the man without a resting place?

"Stay the night, if you don't mind sharing a futon."

Hashirama blinked. "Are ... are you sure? I wouldn't want to intrude."

"I wouldn't have offered if I thought you'd be intruding."

"..."

"You can have the futon."

"No! No, I couldn't kick you out of your own bed. I'm happy to share! I simply didn't want to inconvenience you."

Hashirama flashed him another one of his killer smiles as Madara hauled him to his feet. It was happy, open and trusting. It would sparkle if it could, and it definitely wasn't doing anything to the heart he did not possess.

  


* * *

  


On the veranda sat two masu cups and one empty bottle lying on its side, shimmering in the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's pretty long and very meandering, but aren't all conversations between old friends with a lot to catch up on like that?
> 
> Also, I had some fun with the orange grove after learning orange was Madara's favourite colour. ;)
> 
> One more thing is, I don't know if anyone caught it, but in the series, Hashirama told Sasuke being shinobi means 'to endure'. For Hashirama, I like to imagine the thing he had to endure was the loss of his best friend, and the knowledge that he was the one who killed him.
> 
> I did my best to edit and beta this but there are only so many times I can read through the same thing before becoming so utterly bored of it so if there are any bugs still, please let me know so I can fix it.


End file.
